


An Exploration in Cultural Differences Between Autobots and Decepticons (OR: The one where the author didn't have a plot, but did have fun)

by Twigwise



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Outing, Alien Culture, Canon Typical Shenanigans, Gen, Secret Solenoid, Worldbuilding, aka "some robots are transgender", chapters two and three involve, g1 adjacent alternate universe, wrong-frame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twigwise/pseuds/Twigwise
Summary: A snapshot study in a day of the lives of Cybertronians, ever-warring, ever stuck on Earth. Autobots and Decepticons may only be two factions of a single race of mechanical organisms, but their cultures within the ranks of the respective armies varies wildly. Take a peek at six random happenings, each on the same day, that show the differences between the two, and one or two similarities.





	1. Mornings Are Rough No Matter Where You Are

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Secret Solenoid gift for Darklordofcutlets, over on Tumblr! My prompt was "Any continuity: Autobot/Decepticon culture clash. Language, traditions, quirks, everyday habits - anything you can think of." I don't know if I did that justice, but I tried my best and had fun with this, so, enjoy!

**ARK, Front Entry: Just before FIRST SHIFT [0500 local Earth time]**

Were they back on Cybertron, recharging this often would be absolutely ridiculous. But adapting to a “human-adjacent” cycle of a recharge/online schedule, just so that they could keep up appearances and similarities with their human hosts on Earth, well, it was almost luxurious. “Sleeping” for five Earth hours per solar-cycle was a good way to keep reserves charged, meaning circuits buzzed with energy that would have been unheard of back home. 

It also meant that mechs were in reboot stage more frequently.

And that was where Sunstreaker was now, groggily shuffling to the rendezvous with his first-shift partner to head to patrol. Today he was paired with Bluestreak, which was unfortunate, because whatever was up with Bluestreak's processor that made him run his mouth, well, it made him a quintessential “morning person.” And walking into range of his field was like walking into a brick wall of happy.

“Sunny! Hi! Hey! Didja sleep well last night? You look like death, as in, like you're gonna bring it down on some poor innocent soul!”

Sunstreaker grimaced. He liked Bluestreak, he did- they were around the same age, and when his CPU wasn't full of cotton and trying to “wake up,” he found the gray 'bot's energy to be soothingly similar to Sideswipe's. But right now, that energy was just frustrating. He let rancor edge into his EM field and brushed it up against Bluestreak, and felt only infinitesimally guilty when the mech's doorwings sagged in turn. 

“Right, sorry, forgot you're not a morning mech. Who'd you piss off to get stuck with me this fine day?”

Against his better judgment, Sunstreaker smiled, but only just. “Caught me. Got into a scrap with Cliffjumper in the mess hall. Fragger made me drop my Energon all down my front, and I'd just waxed.”

Bluestreak tsked at him, his doorwings flicking playfully. “Now Sunny, that's no way to treat your peers. Why, in the Autobot Code, chapter 27, section three, subheading ten-”

Sunstreaker balefully looked at Bluestreak, who couldn't contain his laughter. He doubled over, engine revving and doorwings fluttering like a bird's. It took a klik for him to settle enough to straighten and flash a dazzling smile at Sunstreaker. 

“Did I sound enough like Prowl there?”

“Eh, six out of ten, you were edging a little too close to Ultra Magnus for my taste...”

Bluestreak brushed his EM field, full of sunshine and warmth, over Sunstreaker's own, which prickled outwards with tentative content. 

“Come on,” Sunstreaker said, walking out the entrance to the ARK, “Let's take off.”

________________________________________________________________________________________

**NEMESIS, Barracks: Shortly before MORNING BRIEF [0600 local Earth time]**

According to the rotation roster, at this time, exactly 12.5% of the forces on the Nemesis were in recharge, a fact that Barricade was both counting on and lamenting as he quietly skulked through the sleeping quarters of the Nemesis. He wasn't on any particular mission, he just wanted to get to the washracks and then to the morning brief. Without being disturbed. So the empty halls were good for that, but bad for him in other ways- like the way that, despite his best efforts, his "quiet" was not actually that quiet.

The sharp hydraulic woosh of a habsuite door opening startled Barricade enough that he let his EM field loose in a surprised whip, earning him a snide barbed look from the inhabitant of the room. Barricade's field snapped back to be flush against his frame- far more respectful- and he put his best “poker face” on as he turned towards the other mech.

It was Swindle, one of the Combaticons, which just meant that Barricade was one wrong word away from incurring the wrath of the rest of the gestalt team. Thankfully, Swindle was the easiest one to deal with; if you had access to any form of human money, or better, galactic credits, well, Swindle was a simple mech.

A simple mech leaning, irritated, against his doorframe. In the dimmed habsuite behind him, Barricade could make out the recharging forms of the other Combaticons. 

“Ah, Barricade, to what do I owe the, ah, _pleasure_ of being woken up by your tromping outside our room?”

Barricade shifted from pede to pede and reset his optics. “Uh. Headed ta the washracks. Was tryin' ta be quiet.”

Swindle nodded and cupped his chin in one hand, as though thinking. Barricade's armor was shifting in ripples down his spine. Swindle didn't outrank him, technically, but he had his ways of making other mechs pay. 

“Tell ya what, Barry- can I call you Barry?- Let's make a _deal._ You take hallway Epsilon out, instead of Theta here, and we forget that you woke me up and promptly lost control of your field like a fragging _newspark,_ okay?”

Barricade bristled. There was a higher concentration of mechs assigned to recharge cycle in Epsilon, which was why he'd chosen Theta hall to get to the washracks in the first place! And his name wasn't “Barry,” plus the dig about not controlling his field-!

Someone shifted in the room behind Swindle, the faint groan of what sounded like Onslaught stirring. “Mnnh.... Swindle? Whassgoinon?”

Swindle looked at Barricade expectantly. The message in his purple optics was clear: _Agree, or I get my gestalt-mate to ruin your day._ Barricade nodded sharply, hissed “Fine” between his denta, and edged away. 

Swindle turned back into the room and said, “Oh, nothing, thought I heard a glitch-mouse in the hall,” before pushing the keypad to shut the door. 

Barricade didn't make a sound the rest of the way to the washracks.


	2. Check-Ups (Part 1)

**ARK, Med-Bay: Middle of FIRST SHIFT [1000 local Earth time]**

Ratchet looked over the mech on his work table. Red Alert, head of Autobot security and the only member of Autobot Central Command to have been left on Cybertron during the last ditch efforts of Optimus Prime and his select crew to find new sources of energy for their failing war efforts. Red Alert was understandably jumpy on the table he was seated upon. Ratchet had never had the best bedside manner, and Red Alert had never been fond of doctors. Unsurprisingly, that meant that Red hadn't had a checkup in the four million since the exploratory party had left Cybertron. And considering that his last experience with any medical officer had been Hoist unceremoniously and inelegantly implying he was going to “fix” Red Alert's well-known and long-standing processor-integrated paranoia glitch...

Well, Ratchet understood why Red Alert was so nervous.

That didn't soften his attitude any, though, when the mech once again cast a wary optic around the room, as though searching for an escape route.

“If ya keep fidgeting like a sparkling, Red, I'm gonna weld your aft to the table so I can get my diagnostics done,” Ratchet snapped at the smaller mech. Red Alert went still... for a moment. It didn't last long, and Ratchet exvented with a huff. It made Red jump, which he at least had the sense to look sheepish about.

“Red Alert! You're jumpier than a Retro Rabbit right now, what has gotten into you?”

Red Alert fiddled with his hands. “Is this really necessary, Ratchet? Hoist already checked my CPU and repaired the electrical damage from my short, that should be satisfactory...”

Ratchet turned and looked over Red Alert tiredly. The white and red lambo had his plating flush against his frame, but it shifted with anxiety, looking all the world like a chained songbird ruffling its feathers. Ratchet sighed.

“I know he did, Red, but I also know you wouldn't let him uplink to any of your other systems or perform a routine frame check, and that you pulled rank on him to get out of it,” Ratchet said. Red Alert sagged under his gaze. “So, seeing as I outrank you, and I would like to consider us friends, _I'll_ do the checkups, and then it'll be taken care of and we can both have peace of processor. Got it?”

Suitably chastised, Red Alert nodded and finally laid back on the exam table. Ratchet opened a wrist panel and withdrew a medicable, striped white and red, and gestured towards Red's chestplates.

“Going to do a spark diagnostic, first, ok? Make sure you didn't suffer any stress from the Negavator incident that could cause it to go nova on us.”

Red Alert moved to sit up, but Ratchet easily held him fast with one hand. A panicked look came over Red's faceplates.

“Please, Ratchet, can we do the other tests first? Anything but a spark diagnostic-”

Ratchet frowned. “Kid, it's just a diagnostic, I won't even open your fragging chamber. What's gotten into you?”

“I- I-” Red Alert spluttered weakly, unable to come up with an excuse. 

“If you keep struggling, Red, I'm going to haul you to the brig and lock you in there with your damned brothers. You know they'll never let you live that down.” Normally, Ratchet would have threatened to use his override codes to force the mech into stasis, but he also knew Red Alert well enough to know that was a recipe for a panic attack. This would be the ticket.

Red Alert went quiet and still, scowling. “You wouldn't.”

“I would and you know it.” 

There was a brief stare-down between the two before the click-hiss of chestplates opening cut the silence of the medbay suite. Ratchet smirked and carefully plugged one end of the medicable into a port adjacent to Red Alert's spark chamber. The other end, he uplinked to a port next to his own audial.

With a hum, Ratchet effortlessly sifted through a little over four million years of status reports automatically aggregated by the spark chamber. Finding no data indicating undue stress on the spark, Ratchet then pulled up the readout of the spark itself. Though his optics were off, he could hear Red Alert's fans kick higher, probably out of nerves. He didn't pay that any mind, instead focused on translating the data. He was no gifted spark analyst, but he did his best when he had to. 

Unfortunately, the data spoke for itself once translated.

Ratchet tugged the cable out of the side of his helm and gaped at Red Alert, who seemed frozen to the berth.

“You're a fucking _wrong-frame?_ How is that not in your file?” The use of the human epithet made Ratchet's bewilderment all the more heavy, and Red Alert imperceptibly shrunk further into the table he lied on.

“I wrote my own file?” Red Alert asked, quietly, with guilt drenching his vocals. “B-benefits of being Security Director, I wrote half the non-medical personnel files we have _anyways_ ,” He continued, building speed. “I couldn't- can't- let anyone know, Ratchet, you can't tell anyone-”

Ratchet held up a hand to cut Red Alert off. “Red, you're- I've seen the radiation patterns of the Aerialbots' sparks, and yours is so similar to theirs- Are you meant to be a flier?”

Again Red Alert shrank into himself; if he made himself any smaller, he would be transforming into his vehicle mode. “Yes?”

“What kind?” 

“...........a Seeker,” Red mumbled, almost too quietly to hear. 

Ratchet kneaded the bridge of his nose with two fingers, exventing harshly. “Ok, kid, I'll be frank with you. I couldn't tell anyone even if I wanted to, it would be a violation of my oaths as a medibot.” He looked back at Red Alert, who was radiating fear despite keeping his field flush against himself, like a human wearing a “poker face.” “And I don't want to tell anyone, either. I know what the other Autobots would think- do think- of wrong-frames. You'd be accused of being a secret Decepticon at best, in danger of bodily harm at worst. I don't want that to happen to you.

“That being said, you're a fragging _idiot_ for not letting me know back when you enlisted, you _absolute brat!”_ Ratchet punctuated that statement with fluffing out his plating and whipping his field over Red Alert, all vitriol and caring and exasperation. Red Alert relaxed a bit.

“You're not mad?”

“Of course I'm mad! Unlike every other slagging idiot in this faction, I know that being wrong-framed isn't something you choose,” Ratchet said, leaning back against his toolbench. “If we were back on Cybertron in the days before the war, Pit, I helped with one or two frame-changes. It wouldn't be a problem to do one for you. It's the council and the senators that spread that propaganda about wrong-frames, and unfortunately, most mechs we know bought into it.”

“Yeah,” Red Alert said, sitting up. 

The two were quiet a moment, before Ratchet shook himself out of his reverie.

“Ok, kid, let's get the frame exam out of the way, I'll get you some high-grade when we're done here, got it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, utilizing my favorite character and favorite headcanon, which you'll have to pry out of my cold, dead, hands.


	3. Check-Ups (Part 2)

**NEMESIS, Med-Bay: Prep Before Raid [1230 local Earth time]**

Knock-Out surveyed the mech on his exam table. Starscream, Second to Lord Megatron, commander of the Air Force, and all-around snooty bastard. He was to be leading a raid on a solar farm in just a few Earth hours, but Knock-Out had noticed the aileron of the Seeker's left wing was out of alignment during the brief that morning, and dragged the mech back to his medbay. No sense in wasting the Constructicons' time with a little bit of maintenance, not when their method of caring for Decepticons was almost as bad as their methods of slagging up Autobots. 

Starscream always took remarkably poor care of himself, for a Seeker. Most Seekers were vain and flamboyant, not unlike a Bird of Paradise here on Earth. Not that Knock-Out was much less appearance-absorbed, but at least he owned up to it. But Starscream, he was always in some form of disarray, for whatever reason.

Starscream rolled his optics and pouted. “Is this really necessary? I should be planning flight maneuvers with my trine, thank you very much.”

Knock-Out balefully raised an optical ridge. Starscream shut his mouth, mandibles clicking against his faceplate. 

“That's what I thought,” Knock-Out purred, coming around the table to look over Starscream's back. 

The aileron was indeed off kilter, and somewhat dented, as though claws had grabbed at it roughly. The angle was such that it would have come from the front, and Knock-Out tipped his helm to one side. Was that a fleck of blue paint left on the white metal of the wing..? 

He walked around to Starscream's front and seized the mech's hands, turning them over and inspecting the delicate palms. Sure enough, on the right hand, there was a gash of dark metal where some blue paint had been scraped off, and even some flecks of white left in the seams. 

Knock-Out looked up at Starscream, who reset his optics, but made no expression. Knock-Out rolled his own optics, and reached up and slapped the larger mech upside the helm.

“Stupid! What are you going and wrenching your wings around for, making more work for me?”

Starscream frowned and rubbed the spot Knock-Out had hit him, even though there was no way the sports car could have done any damage. “I didn't ask you to notice it, or fix it, _ground-pounder_ ,” he sneered. He made no move to get up, though.

Knock-Out moved back to Starscream's rear and dabbed the aileron with paint remover, prepping it to be bent back into shape. It had to be done just right, or Starscream would be flying wobbly all day, and then he'd be in an even fouler mood. Knock-Out said as much, to which Starscream scoffed.

“As though I'd let a little dent throw me off,” he laughed, though broke off into an “ouch” as Knock-Out picked up a spanner and jammed it into his wing-joint. 

“Great, you pulled it hard enough to strain that joint, huh?”

“...maybe.”

Knock-Out exvented in a huff. “I'll get you in flying shape, but you ought to go to Scrapper after this. There's no telling what damage you could have done- as if it's not bad enough you let Megatron throw you around, you honestly don't need to be beating yourself up, too.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Starscream huffed back. 

Knock-Out didn't dignify Starscream with a response, instead focusing on his task at hand. The two fell into a companionable silence. Despite their barbs at each other, Knock-Out and Starscream were friendly enough. Several kliks elapsed. It was Starscream that broke the silence first. 

“You were a flier, before the war, right?”

Knock-Out exvented in a snort. “ _Everyone_ knows that. A pretty little seekerlet from Vos, all hot-metal red and ready for a trine. Except I _hated_ flying. Scared of everything about it other than the speed. My Carrier took me to a spark analyst and it turned out I was wrong-framed. I could have told them that, but nobody listens to you if you're under a million years old, apparently. I got a frame transfer to a groundling form instead of an adult seeker frame, and of course, the nobility of Vos cares little for a tiny “ground-pounder” on their streets.”

“They _exiled_ you? I didn't know that.”

“What? No, you remember Vos, it was _impossible_ to navigate the place without thrusters and wings. I had to enlist a sympathetic shuttle to take me to the Crystal City, where I had a scholarship for medical school. All worked out, until the war broke out. And you remember the propaganda the Autobots put out about how “degenerate frame-hoppers” were going to ruin society? Yes, that was the deciding factor for me joining the Decepticons.”

Starscream nodded mutely. Knock-Out resumed his work, now focusing on the fiddly and over-stretched hydraulic joints in Starscream's wing joint. He had just about finished up when he heard Starscream vocalize something, too quiet to decipher.

“Hm?”

“I said, does it get easier? Does it hurt less, after a frame transfer?”

Knock-Out's hands stilled and he reset his audials before replaying what Starscream had just said. Then he set his tools down and came around Starscream's front again.

“Oh. Oh, Starscream, don't tell me you- you too?”

Starscream nodded mutely, red optics pointedly looking away from Knock-Out's face. 

“But you're older than me, even. How long-?”

Starscream reset his vocalizer with a click. “I always knew, sort of. But I didn't truly understand until I became close friends with Skyfire. We were both in the Autobot Academy of Sciences, specializing in off-world studies. It's not important. I was so envious of him, the slagger. His size, his alt-mode, it had such sleek lines and powerful armor...”

“You're a shuttle,” Knock-Out only half stated. His optics cast scarlet light across Starscream's nose. The flier nodded.

“We actually came here, to Earth, before it was a properly developed planet. It was exhilarating to travel with Skyfire, pretend I was a shuttle too, in the depths of space. But then I lost him in a magnetic storm over the poles, and when I got back to Cybertron, the council wouldn't hear my appeal for a rescue mission. I lost my scholarship- they revoked it after I lost my temper at the old fools- and I lost my best friend, my only confidant; he was the only one I'd ever told.”

Knock-Out settled back, still studying Starscream. He could tell the other mech was on a roll, and once Starscream started talking, it was hard to get him to stop. Not that Knock-Out wanted him to. Starscream was shaking slightly from the weight of the words he said. 

“Not long after, I returned to Vos. My creators had chosen my trine-mates for me, you know how it goes. We were bonded as a trine, without any attention paid to my protests. Not that I resisted much, I was too scared. Thundercracker and Skywarp, they're wonderful trine-mates, but-”

“But you didn't want a trine.”

Starscream shook his helm mutely. He cycled his fans higher before continuing. “They saw into my spark and said it was okay,” he said, vocalizer crackling with emotion. “They accepted that I was a shuttle, said they'd have my wings no matter what. I couldn't give them up. We joined the Decepticons a few centuries later, in no small part because Megatron understood the pain of a wrong-frame. He's been forced into enough to know what it feels like. But I've kept it quiet because we don't have the resources for me to transfer. I know the Decepticons wouldn't care if I told them now, but resources are so scarce...” 

“I know,” Knock-Out said quietly. “But holding it in hurts, too...”

“It does,” Starscream replied, morose. “But imagine what the other Seekers would say if their Air Commander told them he was a slow, ungainly _shuttle?_ ”

“Nothing, and you know it. You're too mean to let them get away with it if they did.”

That drew a small smile on Starscream's face. He chuckled and nodded. Knock-Out smiled back fondly and cuffed Starscream's forearm lightly.

“Come on, let's go to the flight deck, I want to make sure the repairs are good to let you fly today.”

“Got it, doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really loved the concept from TAAO of Starscream being a wrong-frame. Feels good, feels organic.


	4. Annoyances

**ARK, Security Office: Post battle [AUTOBOT VICTORY] (1946 local Earth time)**

Megatron had been nowhere to be seen during that day's particular raid. In fact, when the Autobots had arrived in Holland, Michigan, stepping off of Skyfire, the only thing they encountered was a moody Starscream and several of his Seekers, arms piled high with Energon cubes. Those cubes were supplied by Soundwave, of course, and his Cassettes were there as well. 

The battle was nothing much. Shots were exchanged, a few grazing hits, and property damage galore to the humans' solar farm, when Cliffjumper got a shot off that hit a stack of cubes that Thundercracker held. The ensuing damage was enough to force the Decepticons to flee, with one exception.

A pair of stasis cuffs was enough to subdue Rumble, the Decepticon nuisance, and take him prisoner. Though _subdue_ might be a strong word; it was enough to keep every part of him immobile except his vocalizer and mouth. And since his legs couldn't, his mouth was certainly running. 

“Hey, ain't there music in this joint? I heard Blaster thinks he's as good a DJ as the boss is, howzabout I get some easy listening and make that call myself?”

Jazz leaned over to talk to Red Alert, who was observing Rumble through a security camera in the brig. 

“Does this little dude _ever_ shut up?”

Red Alert shrugged, a bemused expression on his typically stern face. “He's been at this for hours. _Literal hours._ He can't do anything but talk, but he's managed to heckle his way through two guards before I have to pull them because they want to _kill him.”_

“Impressive,” Jazz smiled. “I mean, I know they don't have a protocol for capture, but isn't talking like this some kind of liability?”

“Actually, Huffer asked him that,” Red Alert replied, glancing over at Jazz, “He asked what kind of stupid bullshit that was supposed to mean. So there's that.”

The two watched the camera for a while. Ironhide was the guard on duty, now, and he was doing an admirable job trying to interrogate the tiny Decepticon troublemaker. Unfortunately...

“Ah know yer the lackey o' that damn third in command, boy! Ah know ya know what yer sayin', yeh can't possibly be this stupid-”

“Hey now, rust bucket! I ain't stupid, maybe I'm talkin' ya in circles and YOU are too stupid to figure that out, huh?”

On camera, Ironhide turned away, snapped his helm to one side as if popping a crick out of his neck struts, and made a move as though he was a sighing human. 

“Look, kid, ah'm sorry, but there's protocol ah gotta follow, an' it would be best if yeh jus' followed along, awright?”

“If ya gotta follow protocol, what're ya in here for?”

“...What?”

“Shouldn't you be with her if ya gotta follow her?”

“Damnit boy, do you even know what “protocol” is?”

“Never met her myself!”

Jazz turned away from the screen, doubling over with laughter. Red Alert even cracked a smile. 

“Ok, ok,” Jazz said after a klik of laughing, “we should really just send Prowler in there t'get the info we need, this is ridiculous.”

“Oh, you didn't hear?”

Jazz cocked his helm to one side and looked back at Red Alert. “Heard what?”

“We have no clue where Prowl is. That's part of what we're trying to find out from this miscreant.”

“Oh. Slag.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**NEMESIS, Brig: Post Battle [AUTOBOT VICTORY] (2316 local Earth time)**

“Prowl of Iacon. Autobot Second in Command. Serial-8675309. Onlined 49276d 20612063 617072 69636f 726e.” 

Soundwave would have sighed if they had either the capability or the desire to replicate a human act. As they had neither, they instead stared passively at Prowl, who was chained in a small cell, but for all the galaxy looked like he was as comfortable as he would be back in his own office aboard the ARK.

They had been at this for several Earth hours, now, and they were getting bored, for once, though they wouldn't admit it. Laserbeak, sitting at their shoulder canon, chirped her own frustration at the tedium of their task, staring down at Prowl with glassy yellow optics. 

“Repeat statement: Teletraan-1 not capable of sending forces across the country so quickly. Repeat inquiry: How do Autobots learn Decepticon plans?” 

“Prowl of Iacon. Autobot Second in Command. Serial-8675309. Onlined 49276d 20612063 617072 69636f 726e.” 

Behind their visor and mask, Soundwave grimaced. _Every single time_ an Autobot was captured, they did the same thing. Name, rank, serial number of their Autobrand, and spark-date. It was infuriating, and it would be impressive if not so Primus-damned useless. 

Soundwave didn't torture. They didn't force, or coerce. They simply sat, unnerved the prisoner, and when they were distracted with repeating their useless filler information, Soundwave would reach out with a telepathic tendril and sift through their CPU. And normally, that provided very useful data. But Soundwave hadn't had the misfortune of interrogating Prowl before. 

The Autobot SiC was well known for being more machine than most Autobots, and not in a good way. He was coldly logical and ruthless, with a tactical battle computer that made him an expert tactician, and none of the mercy that Optimus Prime had. That was how his soldiers saw him, at least, though the personnel files Soundwave had accumulated over the millennia of war did little to counteract that idea. And unlike most Autobots, or any other Autobot, really, Prowl didn't let his mental defenses falter. 

“Inquiry: How are you resisting?”

“Prowl of Iacon. Autobot Second in Command. Serial-8675309. Onlined 49276d 20612063 617072 69636f 726e.” 

As Prowl began repeating his designation and rank, Soundwave sent a thought his way, seeping into the mech's CPU, only to find, again, an impenetrable wall constructed purely of what Prowl was currently saying. Even when the mech finished repeating his lines, the defenses held strong against Soundwave's telepathy. 

Infuriating!

So focused was Soundwave, they barely noticed the presence of another mech entering the brig. But they were Soundwave, and the Head of Decepticon Intelligence for a reason, so their “barely noticing” was “fully aware” for most other mechs. They turned only their helm towards the intruder, who was not one of the mechs that belonged on the Nemesis. 

“Jazz. Greetings,” Soundwave said, monotone, hiding their ire at their comrades being unable to even guard their own base efficiently. As if they ever did. 

“Yeah, hey, Soundwave,” Jazz said, holding something behind his back.

That something was squirming and sounded suspiciously like a muffled voice.

“Inquiry: is that Rumble,” Soundwave said, cutting to the point.

Jazz rolled his helm to one side, exventing in frustration. “Man, here I was going t'make this a fun guessin' game, an' ya had t'ruin it. Yes, it's Rumble,” He said, shifting the small cassette so he was holding him in front of his chest, not unlike a human might hold a particularly squirmy puppy. 

Rumble was no longer in stasis cuffs, but instead seemed to be wrapped wholly in a silvery adhesive tape. Soundwave tipped their helm to one side, mimicking Jazz.

“.....Duct..... tape?”

“Primus, man, your child does not shut up!” Jazz exclaimed. 

Rumble, as if to punctuate, made a sound that suspiciously sounded like a muffled “Fuck you!”

“Look, I want Prowler back, and I know you want this little slagger back, so let's cut a deal, a'ight?” 

Soundwave hummed, considering. Megatron would no doubt be unhappy if Soundwave didn't at least try to capture the spy-bot, but both he and Soundwave valued Rumble too much to let him stay in Autobot hands. The Decepticons would be saved the time and trouble of having to rescue Rumble, if they agreed to a prisoner swap. Prowl no doubt was a significant loss, if released, but he wasn't much use right now, anyways, unless Soundwave were to stoop to torture (and even then, Prowl would likely resist.). That, and many other variables, made their internal deliberation drag on. Jazz tapped his pede impatiently.

Lazerbeak was the deciding factor, as she leaned over from her perch on their shoulder and nuzzled their helm. It was reassuring.

Without comment, Soundwave stepped up to the cell keypad and punched the code for release. The solid-light bars of the cell dissipated, and the shackles on Prowl unlocked. Jazz, in turn, set Rumble down and stepped back from him.

There were no words exchanged as Prowl and Jazz slipped out of the room, no sounds save for the muffled yelling of Rumble.

Duct tape. Why hadn't _they_ thought of that to control Rumble?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Hopefully you enjoyed it, Darklordofcutlets!


End file.
